The Highland Laird's Bride. Nicole Locke

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СКАЧАТЬ He had to stick with the plan, which meant, come springtime, he would be gone.

      They walked around his camp, but Lioslath’s eyes remained resolutely on the village ahead. If she continued to ignore him, he wouldn’t be accepted by this clan despite the supplies he brought.

      She said she would accept his help, but she clearly didn’t want to. She was full of contradictions. He wanted to implement his plan, but she forced him to remain idle. He offered the feast in friendship and supplies in goodwill; she didn’t want to eat or discuss repairs. There were too many contrasts and contradictions. Too many factors competing.

      Competition. The thought sparked an idea.

      They’d never mend relations with tempers so high. They had to make peace if he and his men were to stay the winter and he thought he knew how to do it. ‘Winter is coming and some improvements can’t wait until spring. Our clans must work together to begin these repairs.’

      ‘Isn’t that why you feed us?’ she said.

      ‘It isn’t enough. What is needed after these many weeks is distraction. A faire. Some competitions.’

      ‘You want us to do what?’ Lioslath gasped.

      ‘We must have a competition between clans,’ Bram said.

      Games. He wanted to play games in order to defuse a fight. ‘How are games supposed to stop fighting?’

      Lioslath could feel the air clearing since they’d walked out the gates. Near the village was the forest she treasured. Even though she was supposed to be showing him the fields and the village, already she was walking to the trees, to peace.

      And he mentioned games?

      She was done with this conversation. She didn’t want to stay around listening to him until he twisted his words so she agreed with him. He wanted to talk of the village and of the fields, but to her the forest beckoned. She couldn’t wait to get to the trees, to feel the soft dirt under her feet. To hear...silence.

      ‘Are you being wilfully obtuse or do you truly not realise?’

      ‘What will it take for you to leave?’ she said, not wanting him in the trees with her.

      ‘Go?’ He frowned as if trying to guess what truth she told. ‘As the clan’s mistress, doona you want to appease ill tempers?’

      She wasn’t the clan’s mistress. The only temper she ever cared about was her own. ‘Nae.’

      His frown increased, his eyes troubled. Then everything eased and he stepped back.

      ‘You’re a lady, I apologise. You’ve never been in a situation like this before. However, I ken what will start riots and this competition will help.’

      A lady? Clan’s mistress? He might as well have been speaking French. Even his manner had gone all courtly. She wasn’t gentle born. She had never cared about cookery or ensuring freshly swept staircases, or gentling tempers. She had given Aindreas her bow and arrows, but she felt the comfort of her small blade hidden in the folds of her tunic. The small blade she currently wanted to throw at Bram.

      ‘You cannot be sincere about these games,’ she said. Although what else did she expect from a Colquhoun who laughed all the time? ‘This is a trick, a...jest.’

      ‘Nae a jest. Nae a trick. Simply games. A competition,’ he enunciated. ‘We need a swimming contest across the lake, wrestling, bowls, horseshoes and archery.’

      ‘With teams, scoring, prizes?’

      ‘Aye.’

      He sounded relieved, as if she agreed with him! After everything she’d been through this year—death, vulnerability and soon starvation—he wanted to play games. ‘Frivolous amusements. They serve nae purpose.’

      Bram rolled back on his heels. Lioslath understood nothing, or she wilfully battled against him. Neither would do. This woman wasn’t who he thought she would be. Her father died in April. Surely, by now, she had knowledge of clan affairs? After all, women cared about the temperaments of the people around them, even if they did not deal with the politics of leadership.

      And now, in both of the clans, the men’s temperaments were too high. They needed cooperation and a way to release the tension.

      ‘They serve the purpose of men who want to fight each other. They give direction to their aggression so it is not spent on each other. We need to set it all up and fast or these men will be at each other’s throats by midnight.’

      ‘Those games will not feed my clan, or make their homes stronger, or provide—’

      ‘Those issues would have been addressed weeks ago if you had opened the gates.’

      Lioslath winced and he knew he’d hit his target. Being blunt wasn’t normally in his nature when courteous words worked just as well. But courteous words were wasted with her.

      ‘We need cooperation and there’s nothing else more expedient to address raised tempers than a competition. What they need now is a test of wills.’

      ‘This isn’t a test of wills. I’ve hunted plenty to know when a prey is being manipulated from the safety of their lair. Come here, little vole, you’ll get some food for your belly and then I’ll get food for mine!’

      ‘I set this up so our clans doona start fighting!’

      ‘You make it all my fault. Aye, vole, it’s all your fault you’re in my soup because you were so hungry you ate the scraps in my trap!’

      He would have his way in this. ‘Are you saying I manipulated you when I put the food outside the tunnel?’

      ‘Aye, what else was it?’

      ‘A peace offering. A gift to show nae ill will!’

      ‘And the fact that I took it? Didn’t that obligate me then to open the gates?’

      He’d done it to soften her towards them. ‘You opened the gates to save your honour.’

      ‘Because you were in my bedroom,’ she pointed out. ‘Ah, I’ve been blind. You’ve done it over and over. Here, starving people, here is some food. Here, Clan Fergusson, here’s the promise of sheep and a strong alliance.’

      Her words cut too close to the truth. ‘Careful, Fergusson. Who is twisting words now? The deal we made was a matter of diplomacy between your father and me, made by consenting parties—’

      ‘We’re not consenting. You merely starve our bellies until we feel as if the starvation is somehow our fault! These games you suggest aren’t a compromise, they’re coercion!’

      ‘I am Colquhoun. I am laird. I do not coerce!’

      She smiled. ‘Of course you wouldn’t, how silly of me. We are only here for your pleasure.’

      Shaking his head, he looked around. Their words were not going unnoticed. They were outside the gates now, past the camp and too near the village. There were no benches and tables here, but freshly cooked food lay on carts. Many villagers were taking СКАЧАТЬ